


I'm Over the Atlantic, Baby

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dirty Talk, Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Phone Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:55:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was not what he'd expected when England called him out of the blue like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Over the Atlantic, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the Hetalia kink meme and then reposted on LJ August 17, 2010. 
> 
> Written with the prompt for England to dirty-talk US over the phone. ... Whee.

He tried to ignore it, he really did. But it just kept ringing. It’d only been half an hour but the damned phone had gone through the obnoxiously loud (America was belatedly noticing) ringtone ten times at least. Whoever was calling him didn’t seem to have any intention of leaving a message or sending a text message. So, with a sigh of annoyance, America pulled himself away from another killing spree of cougars in _Red Dead Redemption_ and stumbled his way towards the phone, remembering first to pause his x-box before scooping the cell phone up from where it’d been stuck in his sweatshirt on the floor. Seeing it was England calling, America sighed loudly, tipped his head up towards the ceiling, and mentally prepared himself for whatever lecture the older nation was about to bestow upon him. He flipped open his phone and stumbled back onto his bed, flopping on his back and staring at the ceiling.  
  
“What’s up, eyebrows?”  
  
“Take off your trousers,” England slurred on the other end.  
  
America knitted his brows together. That had probably been the strangest greeting he’d ever received from the Englishman. Rolling over onto his stomach and scooping up his controller, wondering if he could maybe figure out a way to play the game while England was talking, America huffed up a loud puff of air upwards, disturbing his blond bangs.  
  
“… Um,” America said, intelligently so, staring at the pause screen for a long moment. He chewed on his lower lip and listened to England’s hushed breathing. When England offered no words of explanation, America let out a small sigh. “No, thanks. I think I’m good. Are you drunk?”  
  
“Whadu think?” was England’s obviously slurred reply. “Why won’ you?”  
  
“Cause it’s cold,” America said reasonably, groping around blindly for his television remote so he could turn the volume down. England was mumbling into the phone but also sounded far too close, as if he were trying to swallow his phone.   
  
“I’ll make it ‘ot fer you,” England murmured in a voice America had never heard the other nation use before. America scratched at the back of his neck idly, resting his chin on the mattress and kicking his feet above him, crossed at the ankles.   
  
“… Kay. I’ll bite. How are you going to make it hot for me, England, when you’re across the ocean?”   
  
England’s response was heavy breathing for a moment and America cringed when England cursed in a drunken slur, undoubtedly shouting at nothing (or one of his imaginary friends) and stumbling around his house. America waited patiently, or impatiently, hoping he could get back to killing cougars and catching wild horses. Games about the Wild West were the best, America decided idly, switching his phone from one ear to the other. There were bandits, robberies, thinly veiled social commentary…  
  
He realized belatedly that England was talking again and America wasn’t listening. “—and fuck you.”  
  
“What, why?” America whined, “That’s mean, England.”   
  
There was a stilled silence on the other end. “S’not mean.”   
  
“I dunno what I did this time, but you don’t have to call me up a bunch of times just to cuss at me, ya know!” America protested.   
  
Again, another stilled silence. There was a deep inhale followed by a quiet exhale as England shifted on the other end. America listened to the breathing and sighed, staring down at the floor and reaching out a hand to pull idly at loose strands in his carpet.   
  
“Look, England, if you’ve got nothing to talk about and you’re just drunk at your house, you should hang up and go lie down,” the younger nation said with pursed lips. “I can’t really afford to go to you and take care of ya, if that’s what you want. I’m… busy.”   
  
“Doin’ wot?” England breathed into the phone, his words husky.  
  
America paused, hand stilling on the carpet. America chewed on his lower lip. “Video game, ya know. ‘Bout the wild west. I’m an ex-bandit hired by the government so I can save my wife and kid. And it involves killing people and riding ponies and—and shit.”   
  
England considered this with deep contemplation, apparently, because he didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Tha’s all?”  
  
“Uh,” America grunted, scrunching up his face. “Yeah?”  
  
“Alone?” England barked.  
  
America rolled his shoulder. “Yeah.”   
  
“… And wot r’you wearin’, boy?” England whispered.  
  
“What, in the game?”  
  
“No.”   
  
There was something halting about that single word. Usually when he was wrong, England liked to highlight, in bitter detail, just how much America had failed—or at least call him a name like “ninny” or “twit.” Not this time, it would seem. Bemused, America frowned thoughtfully before twisting around to stare over his shoulder. “Uh,” he said, “Pants and a shirt? And underwear, too, ha ha.” He wiggled his toes. “And socks. Cool socks. They’re comfy and—”   
  
“Tight trousers or not?”   
  
America studied his legs over his shoulder with a critical eye. “Loose enough, I guess. I’m wearing a belt.”  
  
“Plen’y room t’breathe, hm?” England growled into the phone.   
  
“Are you lying down like I told you to?” America asked, and inexplicably felt his face heating up at England’s words. He had no idea why. He kicked his legs out, letting them fall and lift away from his pillow. He focused on the steady thumping beat.   
  
“I will if you will,” England said and sounded far clearer than before, his words a quiet murmur.  
  
“I’m on my stomach,” America said.  
  
He heard England shifting. Then a long sigh. “That’s good, that’s wonderful. You have a perfectly lovely curve to your back, you know.”  
  
“Uh, thanks, England?” America asked, frowning at the floor again.   
  
“I can just picture you,” England breathed into the phone, voice a soft murmur in America’s ear. America closed his eyes, despite himself. “Beautiful. Simply beautiful.”   
  
“Uh,” America said, face pink. He scrunched his face up, scratched nervously at the back of his head, ruffling his hair.   
  
“Surely you know how damned attractive you are,” England whispered, his voice saturated with disbelief and something America would caution to say was appreciation. Because he was such an awesome country, surely. That had to be what this call was about—any minute now England was going to break down into tears and sob about how much America had fucked England over and how everything was his fault. That, at least, was something America somewhat knew how to deal with. As it stood, he had no idea what England was going on about.   
  
There was a long, long pause. America began, “I…”  
  
“Surely?” England repeated when America trailed off, and America could almost hear the smile in England’s voice.   
  
America kept his eyes squeezed shut, listening to the sound of England’s voice: husky, slurred, and distinctly accented. He licked his dry lips, parted his mouth to breathe in a sharp breath. “I mean. I know I’m easy on the eyes,” America finally admitted, forgetting for a moment about being cocky and full of the typical American bravado. “Look, England—”  
  
“Surely you know what kinds of things people want to do to you all the time?” England said, let drop. The words were spoken so nonchalantly, but with an awed sense of wonder—and it shattered in America’s mind like a bombshell, shrapnel and all. He started, staring in surprise at nothing. But England wasn’t done. His gruff, slurred words murmured, as quiet and as deadly as a bullet to the brain: “—you should know what _I_ would do to you if I was there in the room with you.”  
  
America’s breath caught. His eyes flew open, blinking wildly for a few moments as he let the words sink in, working them over in his mind to make sure that he wasn’t just jumping to conclusions, that England actually _had_ just said that. He didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. His mouth opened, to laugh, to cry, to tell England off for being such a fucking weirdo drunk. But no words escaped. Instead, he felt a strange pooling in his chest, felt his throat constrict further.  
  
“Don’t you?” England pressed, voice breathless with anticipation.  
  
“… Tell me what you would do, England?” America asked, eyebrows raised, unsure where exactly this conversation was going, but suspecting he knew. America shut his eyes, preparing himself for England’s words. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding—perhaps England really _was_ angry with him over something and he just wanted to beat America’s ass. Perhaps the throaty, breathless voice was England’s attempts to suppress his anger.   
  
“I would start by removing those foolish trousers of yours, regardless of how loose or fitted they may be,” England drawled, smug, his words breathless and weighty—and thus completely obliterating America’s scrambled attempts to assess the situation as non-sexual. America swallowed thickly, but England continued, his voice hushed and hoarse. “All of your clothing.”   
  
“O… oh,” America breathed. He bit his lip, chewed it thoughtfully. He should stop this. England obviously wasn’t in his right mind, was obviously drunk off his rocker and taking out his sexual frustrations on the first person to pick up his phone. He should tell England off. He should tell England to go lie down and not talk to anyone else. He was clearly being crazy, clearly delusional. He lifted the phone away from his ear, prepared to flip it shut. Then he blinked his eyes a few more times, sighed, and brought the phone back to his ear. He cleared his throat a few times before whispering, “England, are you trying to have phone sex with me?”   
  
“Whatever you’d like to call it, then fine. But shut up and listen, would you?” England growled, not sounding annoyed but only mildly inconvenienced, and America recognized that he was hearing England’s voice through the haze of both alcohol and lust. He shifted slightly, and his elbow knocked his x-box controller down off the bed, though America paid it no mind, nor seemed to notice.   
  
America debated hanging up then and there, but instead he shifted the phone to the other ear, his other hand fisting in his blanket. Clearly he would have to stay on the line for the sake of blackmail and making fun of England later, for being a dirty, lonely old man—so dirty and lonely that he would call up the greatest country around for the sake of getting his jollies on the telephone.   
  
“And… what would you do after you took off my clothes?” America asked, genuinely curious as much as he would deny it.   
  
There was definitely a smug satisfaction in England’s voice, as if he was the first one to think of doing these things, as if America hadn’t thought of doing things like this many times before—n-not necessarily with England, of course. But—  
  
“I’d suck you off,” England said, surprisingly nonchalant.  
  
America choked on air. His grip on his phone tightened and something in the back of his mind said that maybe he should hang up now and save himself from the awkward conversation that would follow when England sobered up.   
  
But instead, he breathed, “Yeah?”  
  
“I’d fuck you into the mattress,” England said, resolute.  
  
“Oh God,” America breathed, biting his lip again and squirming slightly at the way such lustful words curled across the airwaves and exploded in his mind, leaving him to stare vacantly at the floor. Being fucked into the mattress really shouldn’t sound as appealing as it did just then, slurred, breathless, and accented. “Y-yeah?”  
  
“I’d fuck you until you cried out for mercy, bend you over backwards and give it to you every way you wanted it,” England murmured, and America, with his eyes closed, could just picture the way England’s mouth made love to the telephone’s mouthpiece, the way lips brushed and teeth clacked and tongue waggled. And then he imagined that same mouth around his cock and he couldn’t stop the way his body involuntarily squirmed against the mattress.  
  
He had to roll onto his back, breathing a bit quicker now. He stared up at the ceiling.  
  
“You like that idea, luv?” England drawled out, his words slurred but hot as hellfire.   
  
America licked his lips and swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly feeling far too dry. “Um…”  
  
“Because I love that idea,” the older nation interrupted, and America bit his bottom lip again, chewed on it mercilessly, telling himself the squirming was because England’s words were making him uncomfortable. “I love the idea of moving in you until your entire body goes sore.”  
  
His breathing was definitely harsher now.   
  
“And then?” America asked, voice hitched.  
  
“I sometimes wonder how tight you are, how loud you’d scream. I’d imagine you’d be a screamer, luv, as your mouth is always open and babbling about something obnoxious. I can’t picture you staying quiet. You always have to make some kind of noise.”  
  
“Mmf…”  
  
“Like that,” England drawled. “Alright?”   
  
“Y-yeah,” America muttered, staring at the ceiling in an expression that America knew couldn’t be shock or disgust.  
  
“Hot and bothered, are you?”  
  
“No way,” America said and forced a scoff. “What gave you that idea?”  
  
“The whimper,” England drawled.  
  
“Shut up,” America protested, squinting.   
  
“There’s only one way to shut me up, luv. How am I to shut you up?” England whispered, and again America could not dismiss the image of England’s lips over the receiver, the way he’d take the phone so close to his mouth, hot enough for his panting breath, the breathless whispers. Shit.   
  
“How?” America parroted.  
  
“Perhaps rendering you senseless would do the trick,” England mused, in the kind of voice that suggested that England had absolutely no doubts about _how_ he would go about shutting America up, and America realized he wanted to hear what England had in mind. England was still talking, “Make it so you wouldn’t be able to talk, unless it was to shout my name.”   
  
“Ah…”  
  
“Do you think of me when you touch yourself?”  
  
“What?” America asked before he registered the question. “Huh—uh. I—”  
  
“I think about you,” England whispered and America stopped talking altogether, his breath hitching. “Your big hands, your dirty big mouth of yours. It’s fuckin’ distracting in meetings when you fiddle around with yer tie, I’ll have you know.”  
  
“Sorry?” America asked, biting back a moan.   
  
“Undo your trousers,” England suggested. “If you’d like.”  
  
America inhaled sharply and lifted his head a bit, staring down at his belt, and at the noticeable bulge in his pants. America stared at the said bulge for a long moment, as if disbelieving that such a thing could actually be there. He swallowed around the cotton in his throat and shook his head.  
  
“No. No, I’m… uh, I’m fine.”   
  
“Suit yourself,” England purred.  
  
America almost sobbed out at the way England spoke after that. His game long forgotten, the idea of even hanging up or blackmailing long forgotten, America just stared hopelessly at the ceiling.   
  
“And then?” he asked, despite himself.   
  
“And then wot?” England whispered.   
  
“What would you do once you sucked me off?”   
  
“And who says that I’ve finished with that?” England whispered. “My hands grazing over your thighs to hold you down, taking all of you into my mouth until you begged for mercy. Can you imagine it, America? My tongue, my lips, my mouth…”  
  
“G-god,” America moaned.   
  
“First the head, and then slowly moving down until it’s all tucked away,” England drawled.  
  
There was no denying the bulge now. But America didn’t want to give in. His free hand pressed against his stomach, slipping underneath his shirt and pushing it up, fingers grazing over his skin, swirling around his belly-button idly, following the trail of hair downwards before stopping before his belt. His hand danced away and he resisted the urge to just push his hand underneath his pants, jerk off, and be done with it. He wanted to hear what England had to say.   
  
“You think about me, huh?” America asked, pressing the phone so close to his ear that it was beginning to ache.  
  
England was quiet a moment, and then he said, quietly, “Yes.”   
  
“What do I do?”  
  
America stared down at his boner with all the zen of a monk, he thought. He didn’t want to touch himself. There was no way he wanted to get off to the sound of England’s voice. He was talking to the drunk fool simply out of pity, not desire.   
  
“Hm?” England hummed, his voice a gentle murmur on the phone line.  
  
“What do I do when you imagine me?” America asked, tearing his eyes away from his crotch and staring with renewed determination at the ceiling.   
  
England chuckled, low and husky, into the receiver. America bit his lip and arched his back slightly, just managing to swallow back the small whimper as those soft chuckles did horribly dirty things to him. England didn’t speak right away, but America could hear him breathing on the other end. America closed his eyes, tilting his head to the side, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder. One hand still pressed against his stomach, his free hand now went to run through his hair, pushing the blond hair away from his forehead idly.   
  
“I imagine you saying my name,” England said, voice soft.  
  
“That’s it?” America asked, feeling as if he’d been denied something juicy. He squinted up at the ceiling, hand on his forehead. “Really?”  
  
“Say it now,” England suggested.  
  
America thought this over, stared at his boner some more, and then licked his lips. He shifted to make himself more comfortable on the bed, stretching out and toeing off his socks idly. He squeezed his toes into the blankets, curling and collecting himself.   
  
When he spoke, his voice sounded dry, but by no means unwilling.   
  
“England,” he whispered.   
  
“Just like that,” England admitted, voice hushed.  
  
America straightened out his back again, not able to resist the small smile that drifted over his face. He said, softer this time, but his voice deeper and lower, “Oh, England…”   
  
England didn’t respond, but America heard him choke back a small groan. America grinned, face red.  
  
“And I say that while you’re running hands over your chest, over your hips…” England murmured.  
  
“Yeah,” America moaned, legitimately moaned that time, the hand on his stomach drifting up his chest, under his shirt. He pulled his shirt up, watching his fingers tracing along the lines of his ribs and then back down over his belly. “England…”  
  
“And you say unspeakably dirty things to me,” England continued, “Encouraging me on. Stroking my ego.”  
  
“Among other things, huh?” America asked, still grinning, though his breath came out a bit quicker now, his voice breathless still.   
  
“Indeed.”  
  
“So, that’s what you would do if you were in the room with me? Let me touch myself?” America asked and wondered how it’d come to this.   
  
“Oh no, luv,” England drawled and America shivered at the promise heavy in his voice, beneath the whispered lust. “I’d remove your clothing, I’d suck you off until you were sobbing from pleasure. And I wouldn’t stop until you were unable to speak a single, coherent word.”  
  
“Yeah?” America moaned, “Tell me more.”  
  
“If given the chance, America, I would never stop fucking you,” England murmured.   
  
“Yes,” America hissed, clenching his eyes shut. His hands fumbled for his pants, undoing the belt with shaking hands. “And?”  
  
“I’d make you feel things you never felt before, with anyone, anywhere. I’d fuck you and I’d fill you and I’d leave you begging for more.”  
  
His belt was off now and with his hands shaking and struggling to keep the phone pressed to his ear so he wouldn’t lose a single syllable of England’s carefully drawled words. Pants free, he stuffed a hand into his pants and fisted himself, pumping his stiff cock and just managing to muffle his quiet cry.  
  
“England…”  
  
“Just like that,” England agreed. He was quiet a moment, save for his breathing, and America focused on the sound, pumping his cock stiffly, hand stumbling, wishing that it wasn’t his hand. He heard England chuckle as America just barely managed to stifle a moan. “Are you touching yourself now, America?”  
  
“Fuck,” America gasped as his thumb stroked along the thick vein in his cock. “Maybe?”  
  
“Do you like what I’m saying?” England murmured.  
  
“Yes,” America admitted, quietly. He bit at his lip as the speed of his hand increased.  
  
“Imagine it’s me touching you, America,” England whispered, encouraging, voice throaty and hoarse in his ear, as if England was right there, whispering to him in that damned sexy voice of his. “Imagine it’s my hand running up and down you, twisting and turning and perhaps even sucking, if you could keep from thrusting up and choking me.”   
  
“God—”  
  
“God has nothing to do with it, America. The pleasure you’re feeling is all because of me.”   
  
America arched up, feeling his toes curl. His glasses were askew.   
  
“My hands and my mouth on you… can you just picture it?” England murmured in his ear.   
  
“Yes,” America sobbed out, feeling his body begin to tense up.   
  
There was a smug silence.   
  
“Are you coming, America?” England drawled.  
  
“Ye-esss,” America sobbed out, breath hitching halfway through the guttural cry. His body spasmed and the warm ribbons of cum spilled over his hand and stomach.   
  
He panted into the phone, his mouth pressed up against his cell phone, glasses still knocked askew, his eyes clenched shut as he rode out the waves of his orgasm, body spasming slightly and his words failing him as he panted breathlessly into the phone, just barely hearing England’s soft gasps through the phone on the other end.   
  
“S-so what are the chances I can get you over here to do all that?” America asked, panting, staring down at his dirty hand once he regained some control of his senses.  
  
There was a pause and America almost feared that England had finally passed out from the alcohol. And then England’s voice rang out low, calm, and clear, “Call me once you’ve gotten yourself cleaned up, boy.”  
  
And then the bastard hung up on him. America stayed in silent shock, mouth agape, phone tucked up against his ear. He panted, chest heaving. And then he blinked a few times, pulled the phone away from his ear to confirm that, yes, England had hung up on him. It took a few other moments until America could calm down enough to function and think properly. And then he was scurrying off the bed and to the bathroom, stumbling over his pants, to clean himself up and call England all over again.


End file.
